


Arcana: Death and The Capitals

by TheWillow0421



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambushes and Sneak Attacks, Blood and Injury, Chaptered, Chicago (City), Dystopia, Future Fic, Future Healthcare, Healthcare, Heist, Minor Violence, Near Future, Other, Science Fiction, Technology, major arcana - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 15:17:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20409913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWillow0421/pseuds/TheWillow0421
Summary: 2048, ChicagoPiper Lyness was found half-dead with no memory on a Chicago beach, drenched in blood that was not her own. The leader of the Major Arcana Org took Piper in and renamed her Death.The Arcana is one of many Orgs around the Midwest fighting Pharma. After merging into a massive entity, Pharma took over the government and now has a hold on the healthcare and safety of the country. Orgs seek to rebel against that. Or, at least, survive it.Death and her best friend, Chariot, are sent by the leader of the Major Arcana to enlist a new Fool, one who is on the run from Pharma and knows many of its secrets. But the Arcana isn't the only Org who seeks this individual. It appears there may be more to their new Fool than meets the eye.As the Orgs teeter on the brink of war with each other, Pharma has found news ways to snuff their opposition. It doesn't help that Death's once-forgotten past starts to get in the way.





	Arcana: Death and The Capitals

**Chapter One**

The Fool

> _"If I must die,_
> 
> _I will encounter darkness as a bride,_
> 
> _And hug it in mine arms."_
> 
> _–Measure for Measure, Shakespeare_

On the road for a Fool.

Chariot drove, and I leaned against the passenger window, my stomach feeling salty and sour. The sun was just beginning to rise, its blood-orange glow seeping from the horizon. What was the saying? Red sky at night, sailor’s delight; Red sky in morning, sailor’s take warning. Made sense. I didn’t like where we’re going. I didn’t like the reason we were going. Leaving the city at all always made me nervous.

“Ma says she could be the key to everything,” Chariot said, glancing at me. I nodded but said nothing. My doubt was palpable. I couldn’t get rid of the scowl on my face.

“You okay, D?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Well you look like you downed a bottle of Malört,” Chariot said. She huffed out a breathe. “You can talk to me, you know.”

“I don’t want to talk,” I said, waving her off. “Let’s get this over with.”

Chariot pursed her lips, her face falling into disappointment. My stomach twisted, irritation turning into regret. Damn. I pushed my head back against the headrest, resting the back of my hand over my eyes. I was being a bitch. She knew it. I knew it. There was no backing out of this, and it wasn’t Chariot’s fault. Ma entrusted us with the assignment. We accepted, and I should consider it an honor. Ma chose us to retrieve and enlist a new member of the Arcana–a rarity–and this member supposedly had all the goods: A plethora of vital information about supply chains, shipment routes, and warehouse locations and most importantly administrative logins. Insight. Ties. Everything we need to bring Pharma to its knees. It sounded almost too good to be true.

So I wondered why, despite the golden opportunity, this trip felt like a road to hell.

Still, it wasn’t Chariot’s fault. Never her fault. I couldn’t take this out on her.

I bit the inside of my cheek and swallowed my pride.

“This car have any music?” I took my hand off my face and leaned forward and to check out the console. No smart screen. Not even an AUX plugin. This car must be at least 30 years old. No wonder it felt so rickety on the highway.

“A CD player?” I asked. “Damn, Chari, where did you boost this from, 2005?”

“Who knew Death could be so whiny,” Chariot snapped, but she couldn’t hide her signature smirk. “I didn’t boost it. It’s a burner. Less likely to be tracked.”

I shrugged. True. All the newer cars were easier to hack. Any car older than 2016 was a safer bet for unlicensed travel. On the other hand, they also stood out like a beach ball in winter.

“I’ll admit, though,” Chariot said, her caramel fingers tightening on the wheel. “I’d so love to try my hand on one of the new Pharma Wraiths.”

Her voice sounded like a purr, and I could tell she was imagining boosting one of those stealthy vehicles now. Her blue-green eyes became river wild, and her curly halo of black hair bounced with each bump in the road. I smiled. Chariot, true to her name, took care of transportation for the Arcana. She grew up in a family of mechanics and could, to my knowledge, boost any car without so much as scratching a window. Ma enlisted her years ago, before I was found. At the time, Chariot made too much noise on the streets, stealing police and Pharma cars purely for the fun of it. Ma gave Chariot a purpose.

“If this new member’s knowledge is as good as Ma says, then you might have your pick of the litter,” I said.

Chariot grinned. She nodded to the folder at my feet.

“One downside to this shitty old-man-car is no GPS,” she said. “Can you check the directions again?”

I picked up the folder and flipped it open. Ma’s careful calligraphy listed the directions. We knew Ma was anxious when she didn’t want to even chance putting the information on a tablet in case it was traced.

“Sometimes, my dear Death” Ma had said, handing me the folder. “The old ways are best.”

“Stay on 94 until the Townline Road exit,” I told Chariot.

“Easy enough,” Chariot said.

I flipped aside the directions and found the profile of the new Fool.

“Cassandra Abara, 68 years old,” I read aloud. “Former CFO of Tomi Pharmaceuticals, before it merged with Pharma. She was based at its headquarters in San Francisco. Then she retired and went into hiding five years ago. Apparently, Tomi is still very interested in finding her.”

Chariot snorted.

“Probably because people don’t usually retire from Pharma anymore ,” she said. “Did Ma say how she found her?”

“I think Ma said Abara contacted her,” I said, flipping through the paperwork, but there was no mention of it in the notes.

Chariot sighed, thrumming her fingers on the steering wheel.

“I know her information is important,” Chari said. “But I don’t get why we’re enlisting her. It’s–it’s too soon.”

Chariot’s knuckles went white against the wheel, and I thought I could hear the groan in the leather in her hands. She took a ragged breath in, and I knew who she was thinking about, because I was, too.

Chariot was right. It was too soon. Too raw. Our Fool was killed in a raid on one of the Arcana safehouses in Ukrainian Village. It had happened only months ago. No one saw it coming, and we should have. I should have. As Death, it was my job to watch. Reconnaissance. Shadows. I was supposed to observe, scythe in hand, and tell Ma what wheat needed tending, when it came to Pharma of course. I was to be anywhere and everywhere. Feared and respected. I was not Ma’s right hand––that job was Judgment’s–but I was supposed to be her ears, and I held my own gavel just the same. I was usually good at it, too. But Pharma was learning quickly. We had had miscalculated or were given false information numerous times when we tried to intercept shipments of penicillin, epi pens, and flu vaccines. Our coffers were running low; our supplies dwindling. That and other underground Orgs were getting wiped out. Six months prior, Charlie’s Ballroom, one of the largest Orgs, was taken out in one night. Their lair was found and emptied, its members killed onsite or taken¬¬. The building was then razed to the ground. I remember seeing the smoke billow thick on the west side all the way from Rogers Park. Allegedly, only one of the Ballroom members survived: Foxtrot. It was a rumor, but word had it the other Orgs were on the lookout for him, either to enlist or capture for their own information, but there’d been nothing. He had just disappeared.

If only our Fool had been like Foxtrot. Sometimes it happened, when a person in living in the city seemingly just dissolved. They ran. Either out of state or even country. In my eyes it was always better than being dead. How ironic, I suppose, coming from me.

Our Fool had been young, nineteen, and she was the sprite and pride of the group. Ma even said the Fool reminded Ma of her at that age. She was everyone’s favorite. Her humor was contagious, and she could talk her way in and out of anything. I realized, with a start, I didn’t even know her real name. There was no funeral, no burial. Witnesses said she was shot and the body taken. There’d been no one, no time, to mourn.

I would’ve liked to know her name, although it wouldn’t have been prudent. Once enlisted in the Arcana, it was safer to keep former names as quiet as possible. We only knew Abara’s name from the folder. No one else in the Arcana was privy to the information.

“I guess,” I said. “If Abara is fool enough to leave Pharma on her own accord, she’s fool enough for us.”

“No,” Chariot said. “She’s not. She will never be my Fool.”

There was nothing I could say because it was true. Family is irreplaceable.

* * *

Grayslake is a relatively small lake town in Northwest Illinois. It took another hour of driving to get there. Despite the burner car, we didn’t run into any Pharma or police presence. A small victory. We followed the directions Ma gave until we came to a historic part of town. Brick buildings with pastel overhangs above shop entrances. Tudor-style sidings and building fronts like out of an old Western town. It was beautiful. I flattened my hands against the passenger window as if I were a child looking at candies, my breath clouding the glass.

“Been here before?” Chariot asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I mean no. I mean...I don’t think so.”

I knew. _I knew_: I had grown up in a town like this. I remember similar buildings, with a similar lake just blocks away. Familiar streets and trees. A similar town but not this town. That I was sure of, although I couldn’t remember the name of my hometown. My heart sank.

There was still so much I didn’t remember.

My past was all shadows and blurs. I remembered faces and voices with soft edges but no names. I knew I grew up in a town like this, somewhat close to Chicago. I had a family. Parents. A brother. Even a dog¬–a beagle with one of the ears torn and mangled. I think we must’ve adopted him, and I think it was a “him.” But for the life of me, I couldn’t remember their names, locations, or even if they’re alive. I had had dreams, so many dreams, of them walking away from me into a florescent light. I remember them saying my name. Piper. Piper don’t go. And it’s infuriating that every dream is the same and they’re all so damn empty that I wake up sobbing because there’s nothing I can do with it. No clues, just empty facts and bits of memories that seem to pop up at the most inopportune moments. A dog’s ear. A pier. A lake. A pontoon. Muddy sandals. Flowers. A crabapple tree. I could be anyone anywhere, and because of this, I am no one.

I believed that’s one of things Ma loved about me. I was clean. Free of the past and pressures. Fully committed to the cause. Three years ago, I awoke drenched and cold on the shores of Leone Beach Park. There were marks all over my bodies from IVs, and a single bracelet with my name: Lyness, Piper b. 05/2022. Summer was cooling into Autumn but still the lake chilled to the bone. Ma said I was lucky I hadn’t froze to death. She found me. They were driving back to the Arcana compound and she said I was like a ghost on the side of the road. Like the Chicago urban legend Resurrection Mary. Chariot was there; she was the driver. She still joked that everyone in the car with Ma thought I might disappear as soon as they laid in the back seat, whispering into a fog. But despite my ghostliness, I was still hole. Still bled from all the marks on my arms and legs. Ma insisted I was meant to be found, by her, by Arcana. She said she saw in the cards, her tarot deck. The deck that inspired the Org she led.

Ma took me in. Saved me. To this day, there are members who wish she hadn’t. Arcana was a family. Strangers were suspicious, loose ends, and I was the ultimate loose end. I had no beginning nor end. I had floated to shore with nothing on my back, and Ma scooped me up like a drowned bird. Ma said I had died, but death can be many things. Release. Freedom. Rebirth. The end of one path merging into the start of another. Death was everything, everywhere. The world held death close, because if one cannot escape it, one must embrace it. So I did. I became Death.

* * *

The directions instructed us to pull into a parking lot next to an old café by the train tracks. It was still early, and with it being a weekday, only two other cars were parked in the lot. I made mental note of them. A newer sedan, cobalt blue, with shaded windows. The other car was an old Jeep. Old like our small SUV.

“That could be someone’s burner car,” I told Chariot, unbuckling my seatbelt. She leaned forward to give it a once-over. Her nose wrinkled up when she was thinking.

“Possibly. One of the tires is almost flat, though,” she said. “If it’s a tail, they won’t make it far.”

I nodded. Good. Now we just had to think about the sedan.

We got out of the car and met back at the trunk. Chariot took out a small pistol. In a fluid movement, she popped out the cartridge, checked it, slipped it back in and made sure the safety was on. Then she tucked a it in a shoulder holster under her jacket. She offered me a spare.

“Stop,” I said. “You know I don’t carry.”

“I’ll always offer,” she said, then clucked her tongue. “But you do you, boo boo.”

Instead I took out two knives and tucked them next to my calves, under the slip of my knee-high boots. I, too, had a shoulder holster, but for more knives. I tucked four smaller ones in their sheaths.

To be honest, I wasn’t a fan of any weapon, but one couldn’t be Death and harmless. When I was first offered a gun, after Arcana took me, I had stared. When I touched the handle, a flood of images assaulted me. Blood. Blood everywhere. A body on the ground, and me holding the weapon. I don’t know who the body was or why I had shot him, but I knew I had. It was in my past, but not long ago. It must have happened just before I washed up on the beach. There was blood on my hospital gown, and I knew not all of it had been mine. After the images dissipated, I was realized I was bed-bound again. Ma said I had had a panic attack and passed out. I’ve never touched one since.

So I learned to use knives. Judgement trained me; it was her specialty after all. They were light, easy to grasp, cool to the touch. In truth, knives were no different in their capacity for guilt. Knives were closer, more intimate. But there’d be no accidents; no mishaps or mishandlings. I guess that was also the reason I chose them; if I used a knife, I had to be there, present, and take full responsibility.

* * *

We headed into the café. It was called Whistlestop, and inside it smelled like stale cigarettes and pancakes. Smoking had come back in the past few years. It was the new Ibuprofen; the easy out. A cheap and attainable form of comfort, more attainable than what used to be over-the-counter drugs. So it became the over-the-counter.

Each table in the café was covered with a red and white checkerboard tablecloths. Fake flowers in dusty vases sat in the middle, and the were old prints of food framed on the walls.

“Charming,” Chariot said as we reached the hostess table.

A sign stood next to it stating “Please Seat Yourselves.”

“So where the hell is she?” Chariot whispered.

I looked around. The café looked empty. There was the clacking of dishes somewhere in the back, probably in the kitchen, and a faint grease and meat smell hugged the air. The café itself looked as if it were waiting, briefly paused, for something to happen.

Then something shifted. Or someone. There, in a booth in the back. A figure, the back of a head sitting down. I pointed, and Chariot nodded. She reached into her jacket and held it there as we walked.

The figure was a black woman. Her dark brown hair was streaked with grey and braided. She wore glasses and looked down at the menu in her hands with severe dissatisfaction. As we came to the booth, she looked up, her eyes large and brown. She smiled faintly.

“Oh it’s you,” she said, not sounding excited at all. She gestured to the seat across from her. Neither Chariot nor I moved. The woman’s eyes narrowed and she took off her glasses.

“Are you waiting for a secret word? A password?” she asked. “Is this not the picture you saw in the profile?”

She turned to Chariot.

“At least take your hand off the gun,” the woman said. “It’s embarrassing how obvious you are. Look, the food here is shit, but because of that, no one comes here. It’s the best I could do.”

“Abara,” I said.

“Yes,” the woman said. She gestured again to the other side of the booth. “Now sit the fuck down.”

I touched Chariot’s arm, ever so gently. She scowled and let it drop, then slid into the booth. I sat down next to Chariot, directly across from Abara. Our new Fool looked completely disappointed, as if she were expecting anyone else in the world except the two of us.

“You’re as old as my children,” she said. “You are children.”

“Twenty four is hardly juvenile,” Chariot said. “You should talk, Grandma. You don’t really strike the world as a spy.”

Abara stared at Chariot, her hand tapping her red glasses on the menu before her. Her eyes flicked to me.

“And you must be Death,” she said.

“Guilty,” I said.

“How theatrical,” she said flatly.

I sighed.

“Are we going to exchange barbs this morning, or are we here for a reason?” I asked. “We’re under the impression that you’re coming with us willingly. But please, do let us know if we’re mistaken.”

Abara leaned back in her seat, gazing at each of us in turn. She wore a light cream sweater that complemented her dark skin. She mentioned children but I saw no wedding ring on her finger, but there was the faint outline of one. One that had likely been there for years, weathering the skin into a lighter band. After a moment, Abara put her glasses back and took up the menu again. She glossed over it.

“I will come with you,” she said. “My bags are in the jeep outside.”

So the burner car was hers. Smart woman.

“I do not make this decision lightly,” she continued. “No doubt you know I’ve received other offers, and threats, and yet I chose Arcana. A smaller Org, with only twenty-three members. An Org with many–

She looked directly at me.

“_Unknowns_,” she said.

“So why us,” Chariot countered. “Sounds like you could take your pick, receive more money elsewhere.”

I kicked Chariot under the table. She grunted and turned to me. I could practically feel her blue-green eyes burned holes into my cheeks.

“What an excellent idea,” Abara said.

Goddamn Chariot. This was not how the meeting was supposed to go. We should not be convincing Abara to back away.

“But alas, I think I’ll still stay,” Abara said. “Smaller thorns often do the most damage. And you, Death, amuse me.”

“Me.” I said.

Abara nodded.

“A member who is named for Death.” she said, then let out a dry laugh. “I’m no fool–I see right through you.”

My cheeks warmed.

“Actually you are,” Chariot said. “You’re the new Fool. A member of the Arcana.”

“You assume I’ll take the role,” Abara said. “I am not fond of the name.”

“The dead woman whose place you’re taking would say otherwise,” Chariot said.

“Ah yes, her,” Abara said. “And there’s the fact that you could not protect her. Why would I take the place of a dead child?”

Chariot looked both relieved and enraged. I looked down and saw her fingers stretching in and out, aching for something to hold. A trigger to squeeze. Not good.

“You assume I’m trying to fool anyone,” I said, bringing Abara’s gaze and seething words back to me. Best to avoid having Chariot pushed too hard.

Abara leaned in, letting her glasses slip to the edge of her nose. She looked at me over the lenses.

“You dyed your hair a ridiculous blue-black and chopped it off at the ear, thinking it makes you look intimidating and perhaps more masculine,” Abara said. “You wear black like some goddamn wannabe-assassin and yet there is no gun on your person. You look at me like you want to save me, not kill me. I am not afraid of you, Death. And that’s a problem, because shouldn’t everyone fear Death? You strike me as someone who wants to pardon, not execute. You wear a poor costume, my dear.”

Abara flicked her glasses back on the arch of her nose. She seemed smug, as if she had hit me right on the nail. As if. I wondered what Ma had told her about me. Everything? Nothing? Why the hell should she care? In any case, her assumptions weren’t that perfect. I’ve initiated. I’ve executed. I was neither Justice nor Judgement, but I had performed both. At that particular moment, I felt no inclination to pardon Abara of anything. I had to remember she was no more innocent than the rest of us. She had worked for Pharma for decades. There was blood on her hands, same as the rest of us.

The burning in my cheeks rose to my forehead and neck. This time, it was Chariot who nudged me under the table, softly. Warning.

Abara’s smugness seemed to mold into something more resigned, exhausted. She pinched the edge of her nose between her fingers, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply.

“_Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and fret his hour upon the stage_,” Abara whispered. “_And then is heard no more..._”

Interesting.

“_It is a tale told by an idiot_,” I finished. “_Full of sound and fury. Signifying nothing_.”

My past was all a blur, but I guess I still remembered Shakespeare.

Abara’s eyes flashed open to me, wide and surprised. Then she smiled.

“Very good,” she breathed. “I think it’s time we get down to business.”


End file.
